Chapter 4: Bottle of red

Felicity was late. The address Detective Lance had given her was solidly in the suburbs. It had the faded look of a home that had once been full of life, but now served mostly as a shelter from the weather.

It bore no resemblance to the chic address in the busy neighborhood that she'd tracked Oliver to just last week. Was Laurel enjoying the quiet, or slowly going crazy? She'd find out soon enough, she reasoned, hurrying along the sidewalk. The bottle of wine she'd brought was one of the last she'd had stashed away in her own apartment. She was hoping it would soften the incredible awkwardness that was about to ensue.

"In and out, Smoak, don't let this get weird," she muttered.

The door opened before she could knock. Laurel's expression was either amused or picturing her untimely demise. Felicity figured it was a 50/50 toss-up. She'd heard about that shotgun.

"You look frazzled," the older woman said as she climbed the steps. Felicity could see scrapes and bruises from the quake, but Laurel was still intimidatingly gorgeous. "I hear you got a mysterious summons to eat food with the Lance family."

Ah. What was she supposed to tell Laurel? What had Detective Lance told Laurel? Maybe she should have consulted Oliver.

"Your father and I, uh, worked together… recently." That's convincing, Felicity.

"He told me," Laurel said, cutting bluntly through the confusion. "Without you two shutting down the first device, the damage could have been so much worse. Oh, is that a red?"

Felicity blinked, nodded, and handed over the bottle of Merlot. Where was the dramatic judgment, the accusatory glare?

She trailed Laurel to the back of the house, clutching her purse and doing her best to not look nervous.

"In the process of telling me," Laurel continued, leading her into the kitchen and offering a stool, "it may have come up that you are working with the vigilante."

There it was. The steel in her voice, the cool consideration in her eyes. This was the lawyer that everyone respected. The one who'd walked away from six figures to fix the broken system.

Felicity decided to redirect. "Do you have any glasses? That wine should breathe."

It got her a small smile.

"Above the dishwasher, let me know if you can't reach." Laurel turned back to a loaf of bread she'd apparently been in the process of slathering butter and garlic onto when Felicity arrived. Counting the reprieve as a victory of sorts, Felicity let the silence stand. She managed to snag the front two glasses on her tiptoes. She'd brought her own bottle opener, and she poured two generous glasses and set them to the side.

"Does your father drink?" she asked.

Laurel tensed and glanced over her shoulder at Felicity. Too late, Felicity recalled the public accusations of alcoholism the detective had faced after his divorce. She'd researched him, of course, but that detail had never seemed particularly relevant. Just sad.

"I was never really one for wine." The detective strode into the kitchen, ending the moment himself. He snuck a chunk of bread and deftly avoided his daughter's slap. "But it was good of you to bring some. Laurel loves it."

"Dad, you should probably tell Felicity why she's here so she can stop writing defense strategies in her head during dinner and enjoy the food," Laurel said with a fond smile. She slid the bread into the oven and checked the timer. "Dinner's in 20 minutes."

The detective looked between the two of them. "Sure, I'll do that. But that means you will have to deal with our other visitor."

"You invited someone else?" Laurel stiffened.

"Invited, no," Quentin shrugged. "But he knows our schedule. And you really should talk to him."

Tommy rang the doorbell and paced on the front step. He was hoping the nice merlot he'd brought would soften the surprise visit. It was one of Laurel's favorite vintages.

Not that he was trying to buy her love. If he could just get an invitation inside, he would do his best to win that in the traditional way: heartfelt declarations, kissing, forgiveness, apologies.

Because as hurt as he'd been that she'd slept with Oliver, he owed her an apology for his "I know best" decision to walk away.

He was about to ring the bell again when the door flew open. There she was.

"Tommy." He couldn't read much from her expression, but she didn't exactly seem unhappy to see him. More generally uncomfortable. The bruises were fading, but it was still jarring to see how badly she'd been hurt.

"Hi," he said, unable to stop the fond smile that crept onto his face. God it was good to see her. "Look, I know it's lasagna night, and I don't mean to intrude-"

"And yet," she said with a shake of her head, "here you are."

She stepped out and closed the door behind her. Not a good sign. Neither was the fact that she had a wine glass in her hand already. Her father definitely didn't keep wine in the house. Tommy took a deep breath.

"Yeah, here I am." He sheepishly set the bottle of wine on the stoop so his hands were free. "Laurel, I don't know much right now. My father... and this mess with Oliver." He sighed. This wasn't what he wanted to talk about.

"Tommy, I said I needed some time."

"I know. And I'll walk away, but can you just hear me out?" He asked, looking her straight in the eyes. "Because you... I know what I feel about you. I know how much I miss talking to you at the end of every day. I know I keep ordering your favorite take-out. I know I dream about you. And," he swallowed and looked down, "I know I was a coward."

He looked back up to see her sipping her wine and looking out at the street. She was strong, and soft, and everything he'd ever wanted.

"I was coming to see you," he said. "That's the irony of it all. Oliver ambushed me at work to tell me I was an idiot for thinking I could decide for you. So I went back. But he was already there."

That brought her eyes back to his. He'd been sure she knew, whether from Oliver or just because she could read him so well, but there was shock and even some fear in her gaze.

"You came over that night?" Her voice was tight.

"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "I get it. I can't… I don't deserve to be angry, because I walked away. It's everything I was afraid of – you and Oliver, the unstoppable star-crossed thing."

"Dammit, Tommy."

"I just, I wanted to say that I know I was a coward. And I was a coward that night, too. And I should have stayed, and talked to you, and done whatever I could to make this work. Because I want it to work." He blinked away the moisture in his eyes. "But I love you, Laurel. I meant it in CNRI, and I still do. And if you are sure that your happiness is with Oliver and not with me, I'll be ok. Somehow."

She closed her eyes for an excruciating minute, and Tommy forgot to breathe.

"Here's how this is going to go," she said finally, looking completely composed. "You are going to bring that ridiculously expensive bottle of wine inside and explain why you look like you haven't slept in three days. You are going to help me rescue the young woman who is currently being interrogated by my father. I am going to feed you lasagna. We are going to make awkward small talk. And you are not going to push. Do you think you can do that?"

He could feel his smile stretch from ear to ear. "I can do that."

"Good." She turned and opened the door. "Because I think Felicity is probably ready to bolt, and I have a few questions of my own for her."

Tommy froze in place. Felicity was here? Getting interrogated by Detective Lance? And Laurel wanted a go next – his feet finally moved, and he hurried to catch up to Laurel, wine bottle in hand. His new favorite blonde was going to need all the help she could get.

Laurel had hurried off with an expletive and her glass of wine, leaving Felicity with a knot in her stomach and Detective Quentin Lance.

"So, Ms. Smoak, glad you could make it." He poured himself a glass of water and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. He gestured for her to do the same. "You look like you were in the Glades yourself, that night."

She swirled her wine and tapped nervously at the table. "You said it was important that I come tonight?"

The detective sighed and set down his glass. "Let's be frank. You are the one and only person that I know for sure could give me everything I need on the vigilante."

"Detective," she said slowly, even as she could feel the blood draining from her face, "I thought you said…"

"No, I'm not arresting you. Haven't you heard? Now that the immediate crisis is past, I've been suspended pending an 'inquiry into my actions' the night of the quake," he said with a twisted smile. "But before I'm summoned to answer questions that could put you in a very awkward position, I need to know why."

"Why? I don't understand."

"I was so sure I knew who the vigilante was. I was convinced it was Oliver Queen, that he'd come back more warped by his time on that island than anyone realized." He took a sip of water and Felicity hid her face in her own glass. "But he's always alibied. So if it's not him, why has this guy been contacting me when he wants the police? Why does he keep involving my daughter?"

Oh god. Felicity took a deep breath. This was such a minefield, and every word mattered.

She knew Detective Lance had a toe over the "black and white" line; he'd believed them about the Undertaking when no one else would. But he also had the power to take the team apart with his suspicions. She silently debated using the "family that stands for justice" line, but part of her was sure she could just point out that he ran the task force searching for the vigilante so he was an obvious point of contact.

She must have been silent too long, because he stood up and started pacing the kitchen.

"I don't like using threats," he said. "They're not a big part of my repertoire, not really. But I don't know how else to explain this to you, Ms. Smoak. If you can't give me answers, the only thing I have to give my bosses is you."

"You're wrong." She couldn't believe she was saying it. But when he turned, his face a mask of disbelief, she told herself to channel her best Oliver Queen poker face and finish this out.

"About what?"

"I don't know who he is," she said.

"Bullshit."

"It's not, Detective." She was gaining confidence and momentum. "I work with computers. That's it. The vigilante reached out to me, but he keeps his voice masked if we talk, and even I can't find a digital fingerprint."

The detective slumped back down into his chair and brooded in her direction.

"Assuming I believe you, and I'm not sure I do, you can still answer the second part. Why Laurel?"

"The answer to that question is always because I'm brilliant, gorgeous and funny," Laurel said as she walked back into the room, Tommy Merlyn trailing behind her. He looked worse than he had the night before. Felicity stared at him in confusion, feeling a situation that she'd just barely had contained spin once more out of her control.

He winked at her, and then walked over and picked up the open wine bottle. "Nice choice," he said with a low whistle. "I always forget that you're a wine girl."

"Oh, no, Felicity brought-" "I just really enjoy red-"

Felicity and Laurel spoke up at the same time, and Felicity could sense the moment that both Lances realized what she'd inadvertently revealed.

She tensed, sure she'd made a crucial mistake in this game of lies and half-truths. But Tommy turned to Laurel with an easy smile.

"You didn't know? Felicity did work for Oliver and me in Verdant, she's a whiz with computers and networks and that stuff. And she has great taste in wine."

Laurel hesitated for a moment, her sharp eyes cutting between Tommy's confident ease and Felicity's uncertain tension. Then the buzzer went off, and she spun away to open the oven.

"Well, dinner is served. Tommy, since you're the uninvited drop-in, could you help Dad with the plates?"

Tommy's hesitation was so short Felicity thought she'd imagined it. But when he walked back past her chair, his murmured "be careful" was unmistakable.

She glanced in his direction, but he was already nodding to Detective Lance at the doorway to the next room.

"So, Detective, I was surprised you weren't part of the crew at the press conference a few days ago-"

The door swung shut behind them, muffling the rest of the sentence. Felicity looked up to find Laurel watching her again.

"So, you and Tommy know each other?"

"Not well." At least here she could be honest. "I think I've only had two or three actual conversations with him."

Laurel's grip on her spatula eased slightly. "Well he's still learning to communicate in non-billionaire playboy terms. Conversations are a bit of a stretch."

Felicity grinned. "Ouch. Don't hold back on my account."

"Ok, I won't." Finished slicing the lasagna, Laurel started arranging the garlic bread on a plate. "How do you know the vigilante?"

Here we go. "He found me." The still-closed door to the dining room offered no escape. "Uh, he got in touch electronically, for small things at first."

Like a bullet-riddled laptop, and military security on a flash drive. Or that damn syringe.

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"Because it took me some time to put the pieces together." Because he's my boss. Because I believe in him, ultimately. "And once I did, I was worried that I'd already gotten too involved." And he was bleeding out in my car.

Laurel had laid her serving utensils down and was facing Felicity fully now.

"And why would you keep helping him after that?"

Felicity took a sip of her wine and worked to sound calm. "Have you met him, Ms. Lance?"

"It's Laurel," she said with an irritated wave of her hand. "And you know I have. A few times."

"Have you helped him?"

"Only when – only because there were no other options." Laurel's uncharacteristic stumble seemed to rattle her a bit. She drew herself up, cold and regal. "And I should never have done it. The law is the right way to fight the darkness, not his arrows and more darkness."

Her blindly self-righteous dismissal of Oliver's help, given without thought to the great risk to himself, made Felicity's shoulders clench.

"If you were so confident in the law, you wouldn't be trying to shield me from your father's questioning," she muttered.

The tension crackled in the air between them for a moment. Then Laurel visibly calmed herself.

"And Oliver?"

"I'm sorry?" The sudden shift in conversation – although they were discussing the same person – had her head spinning.

"How many conversations have you had with Oliver Queen?"

"I don't appreciate the-"

"Just tell me." There was a hint of desperation in the statement. Laurel wasn't even trying to intimidate her.

The confident, capable woman who'd handled Tommy's appearance with composure and maneuvered her father out of the room was nowhere to be seen. In her place, Felicity was sure she was meeting the broken and angry girl who'd been left behind by a sister and a boyfriend in the most final of ways. The girl who might love him, but couldn't trust him.

"None like that."

Laurel turned back to the sink and stared out the window. Felicity couldn't tell if she believed her. "First of all, I appreciate the implication that I could, but Oliver Queen and I are from entirely different universes. Secondly, and I like you so I'm going to say this gently: shouldn't you be asking him that question?"

Felicity had managed about six bites of a delicious dinner between awkward small talk carried mostly by Tommy and his ineffable good humor. Laurel had recovered her poise, but she'd only looked in Felicity's direction a few times. Grabbing the garlic bread plate and retreating to the dining room had been cowardly, maybe, but Felicity had just told Oliver's ideal woman to have him confirm his absolute lack of romantic feelings toward her. Why shouldn't she get to bury her sorrows in butter and red wine?

When her phone rang, she was almost glad for the interruption. Until she glanced at the screen. The number was unlisted, but Felicity had her suspicions as to who would be on the other end when she answered.

"Sorry, it's my mother. I'll just step out and see what she wants?"

She could feel three sets of eyes on her as she hurried away. It was with considerable irritation that she jabbed at the button to answer the call.

"This better be important."

"What are you doing?" Oliver sounded more tired than he had earlier that evening. That must be why his voice had an edge she didn't often hear.

"Eating dinner."

"With Laurel and her father? Why the hell is Tommy there?"

She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it. If he was- "Are you upstairs or something?" She would kill him. That would solve so many of her problems.

"Tommy texted me."

"Oh, good. Nice to know what team he's playing for."

"Felicity."

"Technically I don't work for you at the moment," she whispered, too paranoid to snap it at him like she wanted. "So follow me home if it makes you feel better, but don't you try to tell me what to do until you're paying me in some way."

"This isn't about-"

There were footsteps coming down the hall. Felicity cut him off in a rush.

"Ok, mom. Love you too. I'll see you next week. Tuesday, yeah. Bye."

When she turned around, Tommy raised one sardonic eyebrow.

"Mother causing problems?"

"Always."

He smiled, clearly aware who they were referring to. "You up for dessert or shall I make your excuses?"

"I gotta say," she tucked her phone away, ignoring the vibration of text messages arriving, "this is a lousy date. You need to work on your game." His double take made her grin. At least with Tommy she didn't have to be careful.

"I can see how a date that includes the woman I love and her father, who may or may not want to arrest you, might be sending some mixed signals," he shook his head with mock resignation. "I hope this doesn't mean you're giving up on me. You're a damn good drinking buddy."

"Same," she said. "And I'll let you know Tuesday if your services are required. Now tell me dessert is cannoli."

A/N: At long last, the dreaded dinner. I hope it was worth the wait. Tons of hugs to Abbie for all of her help getting this one rolling.